


heartbeats racing the interstate

by hopefulundertone (orphan_account)



Category: All Time Low (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12031452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hopefulundertone
Summary: Jack's not really a 'words' guy.





	heartbeats racing the interstate

**Author's Note:**

> mm dirty work-era jalex more like shitty hair and feelings

Jack's not really a words guy.

The other members give him shit for not knowing their lyrics, and it flusters him sometimes, when Alex is feeling playfully cruel enough to put him on the spot during their concerts, like the time he told Jack to sing Something's Gotta Give and he didn't even know the intro, or the time they were doing a karaoke version of Dear Maria for some press and he sang the wrong lyrics for the bridge. Sure, it's kinda embarrassing when you're singing your oldest and most famous song and you fuck up the damn bridge, but it's never bothered Jack very much, all things considered. He's not the lead singer, he's there to shred on the guitar, and he can do that pretty well.

He leaves the words to Alex, because Alex is apparently some kind of fucking genius and keeps coming up with songs that resonate with millions of people worldwide, and also because Alex is an exhibitionist, probably; Jack doesn't think he could ever do what he does, write his heart out on a page and scream it loud in an arena of thousands. It's hard, sometimes, to reconcile this rock star in front of him, singing to a million people with his heart on his sleeve, with the douchebag fourteen-year-old he'd met in eighth grade, who'd just moved from private school and didn't have a single clue how the real world worked. It makes him wonder how much he's changed, why Alex is so different and mature, and he's still a fucking goof, screwing around and yelling and doing whatever he wants just for shits and giggles, but then he remembers that most of the time, Alex is right behind him, shouting just as loud, laughing just as much, and feels better.

So Jack doesn't particularly mind not being the words guy. Pretty much everything he says is to get a reaction out of people, to make those listening laugh, to get a rise out of the audience, and he throws those words away like they're nothing, swearing and screaming and making jokes that would make an eighth-grader roll their eyes. The deep stuff, the philosophical stuff isn't his area of expertise; Jack lives by simple words, simple concepts, simple emotions. He's happy when he's drunk, he's happy when he's around his friends and family, he's happy when people laugh at his jokes. He's sad when they run out of beer, he's sad when he strikes out, he's happy again when Rian tells him he'll go out for a beer run, he's happier when Alex tells him he's got a new song to try out in the back lounge of the bus. He's very rarely angry, or scared, except before awards shows, and he's over the fucking moon when they play arenas. Jack loves his friends, Jack hates flights that last more than five hours. His bandmates and crew exploit him mercilessly sometimes, just because of how easy it is to please him, but he doesn't mind terribly.

Still, he thinks sometimes it would be cool to be able to weave words together like Alex does, to take everything he feels and immortalise it in run-on sentences that curl around his ribs and dip just where his clavicle does. It seems like it could come in handy, especially in situations like this.

Because what is he supposed to say when Alex is looking at the filthy carpeting, when their bus is quiet for once, Zack and Rian in the front lounge, whiling away the travelling time on the Xbox, and it's just the two of them in the back lounge? His heel is pressed against an empty bottle, one that they'd passed back and forth a while ago, his arm is slung around Alex's shoulders, his eyelids are heavy with contentment. Or at least, they were, up until Alex had murmured something that sounded a lot like, "I really fucking love you."  
He'd replied with an amiable, "Love you too, dude." It's not like they don't tell each other this kind of thing every other day.  
But Alex had shaken his head, looking out the window, and muttered, "Not like that."  
And if he had words, if he were a Shakespeare reborn, maybe he could reply with something half-suitable to the situation, but as it is, his fucked brain just grinds to a halt and suggests he say, "What, like you're gay for me?"  
Which he does. Alex shakes his head, scoffs weakly. "You're the fucking worst."  
He elbows Jack and gets up as if to leave, but his voice rings just a little hollow, and Jack leans forward, hooks a palm around his elbow and tugs him back, back until Alex is sitting back down, and then Jack's shouting at his useless brain to come up with something to say.

Because, frankly, it's not like Jack doesn't know. He's pretty self-centred, but he's not fucking stupid, alright? He's not that much of an oblivious moron. Growing up with Alex, spending nearly every day of their life together for over a decade, it becomes second nature to hear his thoughts all too clearly, to piece apart what the lyrics mean, who they're written to. Of course, it was a lot easier in the beginning, when he named their songs after the girls he chased and the girls who chased him, but even after Alex had learnt to shroud his feelings with cryptic words and vague descriptions, Jack could always tell.  
And then Alex wrote Vegas, and his world had stuttered. Because who else could it be about? He remembers their EP tour, driving all night with only one another and Zack's snoring as company, visiting the casinos, getting wasted together and being public nuisances. He certainly remembers hooking his arm around Alex's neck in the bar adjoining the casino in Las Vegas, drunk out of his mind, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek and tugging on his arm, because nobody else wanted to go to the bathroom and Jack had been pretty sure he'd pass out if he went alone. They'd gotten lost along the way, dazzled by flashing neon lights and loud music, until Jack had pulled both of them into an alcove on the assumption that it led to a bathroom. It didn't, but it had led to a sweet Elvis chapel, which had given him the bright idea to marry Alex. It's just one of those things you gotta do as a rockstar, right?  
He'd gotten on one knee and everything, taken Alex's hand and cupped his own cheek with it, nosed at it until he giggled and shaken Jack off.  
"It makes sense, Alex," he'd pleaded, drawing the word out so it's lost all meaning. "You won't even need, like, a green card anymore, dude, we'll be fuckin' hitched!"  
Jack still remembers how Alex's eyes had flashed in the soft light, unreadable, still remembers the moment of strange clarity, untouched by the loud casino noise and the flashing neon. Alex's hair was brown, and soft, and shaggy in the warm light of the chapel, and his eyes had been a deeper brown, a silent plea, and Jack had known everything he was probably about to say, about how it was a huge mistake and it would ruin the band, about how it would ruin their chances, about how neither of them even liked boys, let alone each other. All had come out of Alex's mouth, though, was a nervous, rabbit-quick, "You're so drunk right now."  
"Yeah, but that doesn't make a difference." Jack argued. "I still love you, and you know that, man." He'd gotten up, slung both arms around Alex's neck and kissed him on the lips, sloppy and enthusiastic and giggly, and Alex hadn't pushed him away, just waited until he pulled away himself. Jack remembers pressing his foreheads against Alex's and murmuring, "Will you, Alex Gaskarth, and your caterpillar eyebrows, and your bendy penis, marry me right here, right now, in this shitty Elvis chapel in Vegas, while we're both fucking hammered?"  
Jack remembers the pause, the look that Alex had given him, full of something too complex and private for him to decipher, even though he was essentially the Rosetta Stone: Alex Gaskarth Edition.  
He hadn't been cruel enough to force Alex to answer anyway, or hadn't been brace enough to hear the answer, just grinned and kissed his cheek again, made some throwaway comment about needing to pee and dragged him out of there.  
Jack hadn't thought about it after the tour ended, wrote it off as drunk-Jack making a fool of himself. Then Alex had brought up a new song, titled it Vegas, hadn't looked at Jack once as he tested out the bridge, and he'd still known. But Alex hadn't ever confronted Jack about it, and Jack hadn't wanted to aggravate the situation, hadn't even been sure if it was really about him or if he was just projecting, so they didn't talk about it.

And then there was A Daydream Away, on their latest album. In his apartment, Jack listens through the demo Alex sends him once and then crawls into bed and doesn't reply his texts for an entire day, because social responsibility takes a backseat to the odd mix of nostalgia and confusion that washes over him, because he can hear the words Alex is singing but he can also hear the words he isn't, words that sound a little like, I love you but I'm scared, words that remind him of high school, after class let out on the days without band practice, sitting in his kitchen with a joint of the weed he'd rustled up. He thinks about sleeping over at Alex's house after late-night trips out to concerts in the city proper, exchanging clothes without fuss because they're fans of the same bands anyway, and he wonders about the raw longing in Alex's voice when he sings the chorus.

"I'm, like, totally gay for you too, man."  
That's the best he can come up with. Jack wants to bolt to the front of the bus and yank open the door and throw himself out, because what the fuck kind of line is that? Alex is looking at him as if he's just grown a third head, so he backtracks, thinks about what he wants to say.  
"As in. I'm not trying to make fun of you, I, like, genuinely love you too." Alex still looks skeptical, so Jack tries harder, fighting through the comfortable dullness the whiskey's bringing in. "Alex Gaskarth, I've lived three hundred days out of a year with you for almost half our lives. You're fuckin', you're talented, you're hot, you're good at almost everything, you bring me booze when I ask, most of the time, and I don't, I don't know how to say this so that you'll believe me, but-"

Jack looks up at this point, expecting Alex to have his head in his hands or something, but instead he's smiling at Jack, he's beaming so fucking big, lips quirked up in that familiar, crooked grin, and then he feels a hand cup his cheek, and they're kissing. It comes lightning-fast then, the realisation that Alex doesn't expect him to have the words, that Alex knows him just as well as he knows Alex, and Jack's never been convinced of the whole true love thing, but he's pretty sure Alex is the closest thing he has to a soulmate, and from now on it won't matter that he doesn't have the words, he knows Alex will, and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i mean i love the song but have you SEEN the lyrics for Vegas what the hell awg 
> 
> anyways hope you enjoyed! comments always always appreciated :)


End file.
